AFTER LUNCH THE day deteriorated rapidly.

The pain between Marya’s shoulder blades returned. Her kneecaps seemed to have calcified during the long luxurious rest. As Gregory bicycled ahead, leading them through traffic, Marya found it increasingly difficult to match her pace with his. The red headband leaped and swam in her vision.

Suddenly the river road widened, leading inland. It was now a four-lane highway dangerous with trucks; Marya felt nauseated by the diesel fumes. Perspiration ran down her striving sides, her hair whipped fiercely in the wind. She was struck by a childish sort of panic: what if Gregory abandoned her, what if he simply forgot her. . . . She had been an idiot to put herself in so vulnerable a position, pitting her inadequate strength against his. . . .

Patiently, sweetly, without a word of adverse comment, he waited for her atop hills; his face too was rather luridly sunburnt, and slick with perspiration. Now he couldn’t ask her if she would like to turn back because it was too late to turn back. Now he didn’t dare ask how she felt because he could see the exhaustion in her face.

Poor Marya. Poor luckless Marya.

On a long steep hill just above Nelson’s Mills, one of the longest and steepest and most luxurious downhill stretches of the entire day, Marya began to pull away from Gregory; she supposed it was dangerous but she couldn’t resist. Coasting so freely and effortlessly, she was able for once to sit up straight and ease the ache in her spine . . . she was able to grip the handlebar with one hand. . . .

Semitrailers roared by, kicking up pebbles. The pavement was broken and uneven. Her hair whipped madly, her eyes watered, sometimes she couldn’t see precisely where she was headed . . . nor could she hear Gregory shouting behind her. . . . She wasn’t certain if he was shouting or if she only imagined it. She couldn’t turn to look. With a thrill of satisfaction she knew she was speeding faster than she’d ever sped before; and accelerating every second. Certain childhood presences observed her, forced to marvel. Her cousin Lee. The boys at the country school. Lester Hughey, and Kyle Roemischer, and Bob Bannerman, and . . . who were the others? . . . she’d been so frightened of them at one time, and now. . . .

Now you can all go to hell, she thought.

How wild this ride, this long downhill plunge! Marya had never experienced anything quite like it.

She supposed that Gregory would want her to use the brakes, that was probably why he’d been shouting, but when Marya began to apply them—cautiously, lightly—they seemed to make no difference at all. She was still accelerating. She couldn’t be stopped.

TRUCKS USE LOW GEAR—the sign whipped past.